


don't touch

by IceImagines



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (by moira not by sombra), Blackmail, Established Relationship, F/F, Fake Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Self-Harm, ambiguous ending, depression shower, idk what this is, insensitive reaction to self-harm, so is widow but she's not as obvious about it, sombra's terrified, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-05 00:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14604828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceImagines/pseuds/IceImagines
Summary: Widowmaker struggles. Sombra tries to help, but doesn't quite know how.





	don't touch

**Author's Note:**

> i know this is really dark and it doesn't have my usual flavor of forced happy ending but depending on how you view it, that might actually be a good thing. 
> 
> as mentioned in the tags, self harm, more specifically cutting plays an important role in this story. please don't read it if that is one of your triggers. 
> 
> sombra is of indigenous mexican, specifically huautla mazatec descent in this. i found the mazatec word she says in a very old dictionary, if anyone who is mazatec should happen to come across this and find it incorrect, again, please let me know.
> 
> the song i mainly listened to while writing this was this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1PyP-jxDbk in case anyone is interested in listening to it while reading!

The day they first notice the wounds on Widowmaker‘s arms, it almost is the death of her. 

They wouldn‘t really kill her, of course. She is too useful for them to grant her such a mercy. No.

They would just split her head open again, toss everything inside around and tear it into pieces until she won‘t be able to recognize herself anymore. They would just hook her up to their beeping, whirring monsters again, let them fill her body with chemicals she doesn‘t have names for, until it would hurt even to breathe. They would just touch her again with their terrible, dirty hands, turn her inside out and steal her from herself, just as they did all those years ago. 

Widowmaker prides herself on her fearlessness. But when Dr. O‘Deorain grabs her forearm, twists it to face upwards, and spits out her words like venom - _„What the bloody hell is that?“_ \- something colder than her skin has ever been wraps her soul up in arms that cut like razorblades. 

Razorblades, much like the ones beneath the sink in her room. Much like the ones that cannot stain with blood from wounds that won‘t bleed. 

She cannot bleed. But she can feel. 

She can. 

She just... forgets sometimes. 

Widowmaker doesn‘t have an answer to Dr. O‘Deorain‘s question. Her eyes are fixated on the wall behind her, tracing patterns in the old, dirty grey so she won‘t have to look at the doctor‘s face with its mismatched eyes and cruel angles, so she won‘t have to feel her fingernails digging into her own blue skin. 

„If those are what I think they are, you‘re in trouble, Lacroix.“

Widowmaker hates the way she says it, that name that doesn‘t belong to her anymore, that they drained from her along with her blood and her warmth and her her. She closes her eyes and blocks it out, that awful voice, like scratching nails against a porcelain plate. 

Faintly, she hears O‘Deorain call out to Ogundimu at the other end of the room. 

„Akande, look at this.“ 

Widowmaker doesn‘t open her eyes, but she feels the floor vibrate beneath Ogundimu‘s heavy footsteps. She hears the frown in his voice when he speaks.

„Lacroix, where did you get those injuries?“ 

He does not sound as awful as O‘Deorain. His voice is deeper, warmer. It‘s a voice she could have trusted, had she not forgotten how to. 

O‘Deorain scoffs. „Isn‘t it obvious? She‘s been cutting herself again. For God‘s sake, I thought I had dealt with this problem.“ 

„I wasn‘t aware it was a problem.“

„It happened a few times immediately after her first mission. I increased the dosage of her serum and she stopped.“

„Do it again, then.“

„I will, but she‘s already receiving almost the limit of what her body can take. Much more and she won‘t be able to perform.“

Widowmaker doesn‘t hear the rest of the conversation. She just wants to leave, and for O‘Deorain to let go of her arm. Her grip is hurting Widowmaker more than any of the wounds she is pressing her pale, spindly fingers into. 

\---

Sombra is waiting outside the conference room when Widowmaker exits it. She, as always, senses immediately that something is not right. When she takes Widowmaker‘s hand, her skin is soft and so, so warm, and when she speaks, Widowmaker has never heard a sound more beautiful. 

„Hey, _araña_ , are you okay?“

There‘s worry in her big dark blue eyes. Something tugs in Widowmaker‘s chest at the sight of it. 

„I...“

She wishes she had an answer for Sombra.

„I don‘t know.“

„Tell me what happened?“ 

It‘s a question, not a command. She will not force Widowmaker to say it, but Widowmaker does it anyway. 

„She noticed my wounds.“ 

She doesn‘t have to say Dr. O‘Deorain‘s name for Sombra to understand. The worry on her pretty face gives way to anger. 

„ _Mierda_.“ The Spanish curse word slips out in a quiet mutter full of barely repressed fury. Widowmaker can tell that Sombra tries not to raise her voice when she addresses her again.

„Go... go upstairs already, okay? My room‘s locked, but you know the code. I‘ll join you in a minute, _ntitaon_.“ 

Widowmaker recognizes the nickname, a word in the Mazatec language Sombra learned from her mother. She explained its meaning to Widowmaker once, but Widowmaker only cares about the shiver of warmth it sends through her cold body when it rolls off Sombra‘s tongue like flowing water. 

She doesn‘t use it often. It usually means something significant when she does. 

Widowmaker doesn‘t argue with her, just nods quietly and squeezes her warm, warm hand one last time before she lets go and slowly starts walking down the corridor. She has an idea of the anger-fueled conversation that is to come between Sombra, O‘Deorain and Ogundimu, and she has no desire to witness it. 

Her arm still feels cold, colder than usual, where O‘Deorain‘s nails dug into it. Maybe she can get the cold to vanish later, if she pulls Sombra‘s warmth close enough to forget that her own touch is like ice.

\---

Sombra sees Moira open her mouth, but she never gets the chance to speak. 

„Don‘t you _dare_ lay a hand on her.“ 

Sombra can see how it shocks them, Moira and Akande both. They‘re used to her being the cheerful, upbeat one, a childish, often ridiculous woman with a certain usefulness as an asset. Now, she hisses her words, her voice seething. There‘s no laughter in her eyes. Not even a little bit. 

She can see how Moira suddenly remembers just who Sombra is, and what she is capable of; something that she likes to make the others forget intentionally. It pays off to be underestimated. Now, seeing the sudden uncertainty on Moira‘s cruel features feels like a triumph. 

„Don‘t be ridiculous, Sombra.“ It‘s obvious how the doctor is doing her best to keep her composure. „You know as well as I do that we cannot simply let this slide. Widowmaker has a function to fulfill, and it‘s my job to ensure that she is in the optimal condition to do so.“

„She‘s not a machine, _bruja._ “ There‘s nothing affectionate about the nickname. „And it‘s long overdue that you got that into our head.“

That‘s what it all comes down to, isn‘t it? Widowmaker is human. Not an object. Not something to be possessed. A person. Sombra isn‘t sure whether Moira doesn‘t know this or simply doesn‘t care. What matters is that the way she speaks of Widowmaker makes Sombra‘s insides boil, makes her want to rip Moira‘s pale throat open with her hard-light nails, watch the blood seep through her fingers. 

But she doesn‘t. She curls her hands into fists at her sides and forces herself not to move, holding Moira‘s mismatched stare with her own. Sometimes, in moments like these, she wonders whether there‘s anything human behind those eyes, or if it died years ago along with any sort of morals or a conscience that Moira might have possessed once upon a time. 

„Sombra.“ Akande‘s voice is gentle. He‘s trying to calm her down. It isn‘t working. „I know this is hard for you, but-“

„It doesn‘t fucking matter whether it‘s hard for me“, she hisses. „This is about Widow. None of you ever seem to care about what it‘s like for Widow. Have you ever thought about why she feels the need to hurt herself? Did you think she fucking did it for the fun of it?“

„No one thinks that.“ He sounds like he‘s talking to his teenage daughter who is throwing a fit over nothing. It‘s incredibly infuriating. „But what would you suggest we do about this problem? Send her to a therapist? You know we can‘t help her like that. We have to work with the options we have.“

„Do you really think I‘m that stupid, Ogundimu? None of this has anything to do with helping Widow. You just want your _perfect weapon_ to run as smoothly as possible.“

She‘s seen it happen before. Seen Widow disappear into the laboratories in the lower levels of the base and come back days later, with her eyes dull and her skin colder than ever. Every time it happens, another little piece of her goes missing, and try as she might, Sombra has never been able to give them back to her.

She doesn‘t know if Widow can survive it again. And she doesn‘t know whether she herself could, either. 

She takes a deep breath. 

„I want you to listen to me, very closely. Both of you. I have the necessary intel to tear Talon into a million tiny pieces. It wouldn‘t even be difficult. And you‘d better believe that I have no inhibitions about doing it if it becomes necessary.“

She can see Akande‘s expression change. He is abruptly realizing that Sombra is dangerous, very dangerous. More dangerous perhaps than all of his heavily armed soldiers combined. 

Sombra respects Akande. She doesn‘t enjoy threatening him, although she has no such reservations about Moira. She does it anyway. She stands her ground, doesn‘t move even an inch.

„Under what circumstances“, Akande asks slowly, „would you consider it necessary?“

Now she has him. He‘s smart. He knows she isn‘t bluffing.

She exhales quietly. 

„If you leave Widow alone from now on, we can forget that any of this ever happened. No more trips into the laboratories. No more raises of the serum‘s dosage.“ 

She looks into Akande‘s eyes, then into Moira‘s. 

„No more questions about her wounds.“

Akande doesn‘t like the deal he‘s being presented with, that much is obvious. Moira is fuming beside him, but doesn‘t dare speak for fear Sombra could make her threat reality. She knows her place. Sombra never has, and that is what gives her an edge in this fight. 

„Very well.“

Akande‘s face is like stone.

„You should go after her, then. See that she won‘t do anything she would regret later.“

Sombra knows the unspoken meaning behind his words, but she doesn‘t say anything about it. She flashes him a dazzling predator‘s smile.

„Awesome.“ 

The jokester is back, just like that. As if something had flicked a switch. 

„Have fun being evil geniuses, then.“ 

She gives them a mocking salute before turning around and hurrying out of the room. 

This isn‘t over. Sombra knows it isn‘t, and she also knows that there is a good chance she will regret what she just did eventually.

But for now, she doesn‘t care.

She just wants Widow to be okay. 

\---

Sombra hears the shower running when she enters her room. She knocks on the bathroom door, but receives no answer. For a moment, she hesitates, not wanting to intrude on Widowmaker‘s privacy, but the worry gains the upper hand. Gently, she opens the door and slips into the bathroom, filled with so much steam it‘s hard to see what‘s in front of her. She can barely make out Widow‘s silhouette, sitting inside the shower with her knees drawn tightly to her chest and her hair pooling around her on the floor. 

„ _Mi amor_ , are you okay?“

Widow shakes her head, the movement so slight Sombra barely catches it. Without another word, she sheds her jacket, then the bodysuit she wears underneath it, until she‘s in just her underwear, and climbs into the shower, a sick feeling taking hold of her heart. She kneels down next to Widow, gently touching her shoulder, full of uncertainty and fear. Sometimes, Widow hates being touched so much that she lashes out even at Sombra for it. Sometimes, she craves it to the extent that she will not even let Sombra get out of bed in the morning. Sombra never knows which she is dealing with. She doesn‘t want to make a mistake now. Doesn‘t want to hurt Widow more than she has already been hurt. 

Widow lifts her head and stares into Sombra‘s eyes. Sombra can tell she‘s been crying even though the water makes her tears impossible to see, and her eyes don‘t redden like those of other people do. No blood, no dilated blood vessels. 

The water streaming from the shower head above is almost scalding hot, so much that it feels painful on Sombra‘s skin, but she doesn‘t complain. She knows why Widow always turns it up so high. It‘s an attempt to make herself feel something, prove to herself that she‘s not totally numb, there‘s something human left within her. 

It‘s the same reason why her wrists are covered again in fresh cuts, no blood streaming out of them, only the thick, blueish fluid it has been replaced with. It‘s full of millions of nanobots, the ones that keep Widow alive, force her ruined body to keep functioning, for as long as Talon needs it to. 

Sombra‘s heart hurts at the sight, but she swallows her feelings down, instead reaching for Widow‘s hand and gently, but insistently prying the razor blade out of it. She reaches behind her and places it on the sink to be dealt with later. The cuts aren‘t dangerous to Widow, they will begin to scab over and close in minutes. They don‘t even hurt as much as they would a normal person. 

The cuts themselves aren‘t what scares Sombra.

She takes Widow‘s face between her hands, thumbs stroking her wet cheeks. Her soaked hair sticks to her forehand in thick, pitch-black strands, only making her look more lost. Her yellow eyes return Sombra‘s gaze so blankly that for a moment, Sombra thinks she doesn‘t even recognize her. But then she tips her head forward, forehead coming to rest against Sombra‘s, and Sombra feels cold hands unsteadily reaching for her, pulling her closer. 

Widow‘s skin is a relief more than anything else with the hot water still pattering down on both of them. 

„They aren‘t gonna hurt you“, Sombra tells her. „Nobody will try to punish you or recondition you or...“

She hears how shaky her own voice is and hates herself for it. 

„They will never touch you again, baby. I made sure they won‘t, okay?“

She isn‘t sure whether or not Widow believes her. She feels her short, blunt nails digging into the skin of her back, but she doesn‘t care that it hurts. All it means is that Widow is here, she‘s with her, they can‘t get to her as long as Sombra has her in her arms. 

She knows it isn‘t true, but she wills herself to believe it is. 

More than anything she wishes she knew what to do, how to get out of this hell, how to save Widow, save herself, make them pay for what they did. Later, she will lay awake in bed for hours thinking about it, trying to force herself to think of a solution. It won‘t work. It won‘t be the first time. 

But it doesn‘t matter. There‘s only one thing that matters, and that is Widow, smelling faintly of a lavender shampoo she must have used half-heartedly before breaking down. Widow, holding her close, resting her head on Sombra‘s shoulder, hiding her face from the world, because not even the steam and the locked door and every single defense system Sombra has installed in her room can be enough to make her feel safe. Only Sombra can, with her warm skin and her beating heart and her clumsy, desperate love. 

Widow presses her chilled lips to Sombra‘s own, a kiss first shallow, almost tentative, but quickly growing in hunger, mouths opening, moving against one another with something almost like despair. Sombra buries her hands in Widow‘s slick hair, feels the other woman fumbling with the clasp of her soaked bra behind her back, and she sighs against her lips and allows herself to forget. Just for now. They deserve these few moments, this little taste of heaven.

Later, they‘re lying in bed, Widow‘s head tucked under her chin, one blue arm thrown over Sombra‘s waist and both their legs intertwined. Widow is fast asleep, her chest rising and sinking unnaturally slowly. Sombra would be worried if she wasn‘t so used to it.

As she predicted, she‘s awake, eyes wide open and staring at nothing in the dark of the room. Something hurts in her chest, a sharp tearing that has been building for months now and won‘t stop. Sombra knows that one day, it will be too much. Try as she might, she won‘t be able to push the pain back down anymore. 

The thought doesn‘t scare her. She has had time to get used to it. The inevitability almost has something comforting about it.

She only hopes that when she snaps, when she eventually tears everything down around her, she will be enough to keep Widow safe.

The thought that one day, the wounds covering her arms will be nothing but scars is the only thing that has held her together this long.

**Author's Note:**

> translations:
> 
> "araña" - spider
> 
> "mierda" - shit
> 
> "ntitaon" - darling
> 
> "bruja" - witch
> 
> "mi amor" - my love


End file.
